Hi! I want to apologize for the delay on this chapter. Since it is a continuation of the scene in the previous chapter, I really hoped to get it out sooner so that the momentum would still be there. Instead, I got the flu and was pretty much convinced I was dying all week.
I'm going to reference a lot of jazz songs, some from the 1920s and some from later. I thought it might be nice to include some links to some versions on youtube (am I allowed to do that? I don't know. Doing it anyway. Sue me!) to help get the whole jazz-age vibe really going. Here's one I've referenced for this chapter!
Please review, it means the world to me. This is such an active fandom and relative to other stories I follow, I don't get as many reviews. It can be discouraging. So if you have any comments, insights, constructive criticism, please let me know! Messages are good, too!
Happy reading :)
Songs:
All the Things You Are-Jo Stafford /U_yzmsiQqFA/
The police made a grand entrance to the Barrelhouse, chortling about something-or-other, until the stony faces of the theater-folk reminded them of the grim vignette they had entered. The two officers seemed diametrically juxtaposed; the younger was a blond man, likely around my age, with a Bohunk-look that seemed entirely too German to me. The older of the two, on the other hand, had a dark, nutmeg complexion and curious emerald eyes that smiled but held an aloof sort of sadness. As I watched him, I could see something chipping away at the fragile edges of his facade, a loss, a heartbreak, or a secret, that relentlessly held him captive. My silent observation of him did not escape his keen understanding though, and he approached me the moment he crossed the threshold of the double doors..
"Good morning, or rather, should I say, good afternoon, sir," His accent was thick with rolling rs and harsh consonants. The vowels in each word were over-enunciated and the meter with which he spoke felt alien to me. My expression must have matched the severity of my analysis, as he quickly added, "I will speak slowly. I understand my accent is difficult for Southerners to decipher."
"Oh, pardon, I'm not a Southerner, and I meant no offense or inconvenience," I offered with genuine humility. In a fluid movement, he withdrew a small pad and a golfer's pencil from his left pocket and his smiling eyes found mine.
"My name is Nadir Khan. I am a member of the New Orleans police and would be pleased to provide you with verification of my identity, should you wish it," I waved dismissively with my hand and he continued. "I should like to ask you a few questions, Mister…"
His voice trailed off but it only took a moment for me to add in, "Scott. William Scott."
"Wonderful, Mr. Scott," He smiled a closed-lip smile and scribbled my name on the pad. "You said you are not from the South?"
"No, sir, in fact I've only just arrived the previous evening. I have acquired temporary lodgings at La Cinquieme." Now, the right-side corner of his mouth turned up in a sly smirk.
"The dancers' house?" I felt peeved as he visibly struggled to contain a chuckle.
"The same," I replied coolly.
"Right…" Scribbling on the paper. "And what happened here today?"
"A rehearsal, as you can see," I struggled to hide the irritation in my voice. Did I really need to spell it out for him? "Ms. Giry went to the third level below the stage and came back aghast. They found a body, belonging to a Mr. Buquet, whom I had not the pleasure of meeting. As I said, Meg made the initial discovery, I merely went down after to verify the situation. It was as she said, Mr. Buquet was quite obviously deceased but there was one thing…"
Mr. Khan's entire body was visibly piqued with interest, and I continued slowly, revelling in the suspense.
"One thing?"
"Yes, you see… she said he was hanging, yet upon my arrival the rope had disappeared and Mr. Buquet appeared to have been dropped on the floor."
"Like a sack of flower?"
My mouth gaped.
"I… I suppose…"
"Very curious indeed, Mr. Scott. No… rope…" Mr. Khan scribbled again before peering straight in my soul with a deliberate, funereal, stare. "And are there any other details you feel might be pertinent to our inquiry? Anything you might have seen… or heard?"
At this, I grew anxious.
"Inquiry? Surely no inquiry is necessary, in the absence of foul play, that is? You suspect foul play?"
In an instant, the officer's jovial features returned and I felt immediately at ease.
"Of course not!" He slapped my shoulder as if we were bosom friends and let out a laugh. "It is simply my duty to evaluate all angles…"
"Well, you must be sure to ask about the Ghost. Some sort of Opera phantom?" I offered. "The staff here seem quite obsessed with the entire affair. I wouldn't put it past a criminal to engage in unseemly behavior and take advantage of the suspicious, idle chatter travelling through the ranks."
"Ah yes… the Opera Ghost," Mr. Khan readied his pencil against the paper again. "And what do you know of the Ghost?"
My blood scalded my veins as my heart suddenly pounded ruthlessly against my lungs. What did I know? Certainly nothing of value. What purpose could my anecdote serve? To be fair, I had no reason to believe that the voice from the previous night was at all involved with the Barrelhouse. On paper it would surely amount to nothing more than the ramblings of a wild-eyed lunatic; then my presence would be tantamount to the drunken musings of a voodoo-obsessed tourist! Surely not the reputation I wanted haunting me during my time in New Orleans.
"Only what I've heard… the musings of children, really," I replied dismissively with another wave of my hand and a subtle shrug. My hands immediately went into my pockets and curled into fists while I attempted to relax the muscles of my jaw.
"Of course! You only recently arrived, surely you couldn't know more than what you've said," Mr. Khan closed his book and tucked the golfer's pencil into it. "Truly a case of unfortunate timing for you, Mr. Scott. I do hope this horrible affair hasn't blemished your opinion of this great city too severely."
"Not at all, Mr. Khan, though I appreciate your concern. If you'll excuse me, however, I should like to speak briefly with the managers. I see they've just arrived. Those two gentlemen are the managers, correct?" I gestured towards two older gentlemen, about the age of my father, who had only just started the process of removing their derby hats and shaking the excess rainwater from their umbrellas.
"Quite correct," Mr. Khan nodded. "The new managers… two Frenchmen. The taller of the two is Monsieur Moncharmin, while the wider of the two is called Monsieur Firmin."
Mr. Khan seemed to melt into the shadows as he outstretched his arm in an invitation for me to take my leave, and I obliged. The sound of the French names across his lips was quite pleasant; a relief from the thick accent that plagued his English. Additionally, I had fond memories of France, the few that were not marred permanently by the War. As I approached the Frenchmen, however, my nostalgic ruminations were shattered.
"Gentlemen, pardon me," I offered gently as I approached. Mr. Moncharmin eyed me quickly from head-to-toe while making no attempts to hide his displeasure.
"Sir, we have only just arrived," Moncharmin huffed in a thick, sing-songy accent. "Rest assured we will speak with the authorities immediately, but surely-"
"You have me mistaken, sir," I replied congenially. I always felt a surge of pride, borne by my spiteful nature no doubt, at responding to disdain in the most saccharine fashion. "My name is William Scott. I suppose you could say I'm to be a regular patron of this fine establishment."
Mr. Firmin's short, stout frame peered around Moncharmin curiously.
"A regular patron? How interesting. I expect, then, that you'll be asking for our nicest tables? Our finest staff? To what other accommodations would a "regular patron" be entitled?"
My blood boiled. How typical of Frenchmen to condescend! Thank goodness, for them, that I was a gentlemen, otherwise I undoubtedly would have engaged in unpleasantries.
"That's not at all my intention, sir," I replied dryly, straightening the sleeves of my shirt before continuing. "You see, I've only just witnessed a horrible affair at your venue. I only sought to place myself at your service, as I will be available, in assisting however you may need. I've already provided my name to the police and made the acquaintance of Madame and Meg Giry-"
"Ah! A patron who has "made the acquaintance" of a dancer girl!" Moncharmin let out a hearty laugh. The left corner of my lips twitched.
"Not in that sense, monsieur," I added viciously. "Let me make this brief, and I have already told this to the police: I suspect some sort of hijinks in your establishment. You see, there was no rope to be found on the third floor below the stage and so-"
"Monsieurs!" Madame Giry interrupted, her complete mutilation of the French syllables bombarded our ears and I saw the managers cringe. "Miss Carlotta has just sent word that she is ill and will be unable to perform tonight."
A series of disgruntled sighs and other various shows of discontent exuded from the men, and Firmin's rotund body scurried across the floor, between tables, towards the bottom of the stage where Madame Giry stood.
"A full house! We have a full house tonight, every table is booked, every seat accounted for! Surely there is someone-"
"Christine Daae could sing, sir!" Meg, still dabbing at the stray lines of eye makeup that ran down her face, interjected.
"Daae?" Moncharmin raised a skeptical eyebrow. "I'm not familiar with American artists…"
"It's a Swedish name, sir," Christine corrected as a stubborn, small pout formed along the lines of her typically soft lips.
"She has been well taught," Madame Giry added.
"By whom?" Firmin asked, still ill at ease.
"I don't know his name, sir," Christine squeaked. "Someone from the Opera… but I don't know…"
"All the same… as we are desperate…" Moncharmin grumbled. "You may sing for us."
I nearly uttered a growl as he deigned, with the same supercilious tone, to allow Christine before him on the stage. As she made her way, dressed in naught but stockings and leotard, with her brown curls pinned away from her face, I felt some of my anger subside.
Without accompaniment, the words, low and visceral, poured out of her. She was no longer human, but a vessel of sound and experience and emotion. My hand reached out and grasped, white-knuckled, the backs of one of the dark, ebony-colored wood chairs as the words slowly wormed their way into my mind.
"You are the promised kiss of spring time,
That makes the lonely winter seem long,
You are the breathless hush of evening
That trembles on the brink of a lovely song."
The vowels were so full and round that I felt myself lost in them as nostalgia bloomed, each syllable peeling open another petal, complete in my soul. The next phrase seemed to emanate from deep within her, and Christine stepped forward on the stage as her eyes strained to see into the darkness.
"You are the angel glow that lights the star,
The dearest things that I know are what you are,"
Her searching gaze grew more sure and her long, strong dancer's arms wrapped around her, softly caressing her as if they belonged to someone else. I watched, utterly entranced, as the sullen, frightened creature I knew disappeared. Her head fell back, chocolate curls cascading behind her, leaving the pristine skin of her neck bare. I could see the muscles there tense and relax as she sang the last lines.
"Someday my happy arms will hold you
And someday I'll know that moment divine,
When all the things you are-
Are mine."
Christine stood frozen on the stage, ensconced in her own embrace, with her mouth still slightly agape as she waited for the last notes and breath to escape her. I gasped in a frantic breath and released my vice grip on the chair beside me and as I looked around I saw each of us, Officer Khan, the Managers, and the dancers, all emerge from Christine's spell with wide, fresh eyes.
In the depths of my chest, my heart beat unsteadily, and I knew in that moment I found myself on the precipice of something profound. Having heard her sing, I had been reborn; in a smokey, dark jazz club, I felt myself changed.
Behind me and above me, the sound of one echoing clap filled the suddenly cavernous hall. I glanced upwards searching for the sound from one of the boxes. For the most fleeting moment, I would have sworn before God and a jury that I had seen the faintest silhouette of a thin frame with tall shoulders resting below two gold, piercing eyes. But after a breath to steady myself, I looked up again and the darkness seemed only an endless void, a canvas on which my mind could paint any mystery or horror it should choose. Still, I heard the clapping continue so I about-faced to the opposing box to see a handsome young man, with a thin moustache, strong, blond eyebrows, and smiling eyes staring adoringly down at Christine.
"Monsieur!" Moncharmin called up to him. "We had hoped to introduce you tonight but since you are here-"
The young man cared not for his words and left the box before Moncharmin could finish.
I looked back towards the stage, my eyes following the sound of Meg's gleeful giggle. She was a hummingbird aflutter around Christine, rearranging her hair, cupping her face, and cooing words of encouragement. I made my way closer to the managers where Madame Giry stood huddled with them in hushed conversation.
"Will she sing?" Giry asked. The words seemed more command than question.
"It was absolutely enthralling…" Firmin pondered.
"Yes but… she's very young and well… Carlotta held a more adult audience in some respects," Moncharmin replied. "We must preserve the nature of the show."
"Gentlemen, she must sing," the young man from the box appeared at the foot of the red-carpeted stairs to the right of the hall. "If this is the sort of establishment we would be investing in, my brother and I… well she must."
"Monsieur Vicomte," Firmin responded with a shallow bow. "certainly she has an appeal but…"
"An appeal?" the Vicomte asked. "We were all spellbound. Now certainly we must approach this as a business, gentlemen, and though we may lose some of our more licentious audience should she become our star, I think the Barrelhouse may gain more respectability. This woman could be the face of French influence in jazz."
There was something radiant about him. His confidence was shameless but there was something endearing about his manner that kept him from arrogance. His build was youthful and strong, his jawline sharp, and his smile golden like his skin and his perfectly slicked-back blonde hair. I found myself simultaneously irritated and smitten.
"One change at a time, monsieur," Moncharmin replied cautiously.
"Perhaps a good, Southern compromise will suit us, then," Madame Giry finally said. It was time we hear the true manager's verdict. "Christine will sing some of Carlotta's numbers center stage. The more "adult" numbers, as you called them, we will feature the dancers. Surely that will satisfy your needs."
She made no effort to hide her contempt and I couldn't stop the corners of my mouth from rising slightly.
"Yes, yes… that will do." Moncharmin agreed at last. Madame Giry nodded before making her way to the stage where Christine had been swarmed by her peers, giddy and drooling with jealousy and adoration, and the Vicomte turned to me.
"And who are you?" His tone was less than inviting but his voice was like water over river rocks, perfect and smooth even with his French accent.
"Oh he's no one," Firmin dismissed me and my mind hurled vicious insults against him in rapid succession. "Just a tenant at the dancers house."
"A tenant?" the Vicomte's eyes sparkled. "Then you know her, where I can find her?"
"My name is William Scott and I'm a writer," I corrected. "And perhaps I could make an introduction Mister Vicomte."
"My name is Raoul de Chagny," he held his hand out and I embraced it with my own in a firm, enthusiastic handshake. "A proposition, Mr. Scott. Be my guest tonight. I ask only that you introduce me to our new star in exchange."
Raoul was completely infatuated. I had seen that look on a boy's face before, full of hope and curious delight, even held it myself once or twice, and knew I could not stamp out such wonder without just cause.
"It would be my pleasure, I think we-"
"Gentlemen!" Madame Giry barked from the stage. "You have just up-ended our entire performance. Could you not do us the honor of leaving so we could clean it up before tonight?"
I did not hesitate to turn on my heel, confident that Raoul and the Managers should follow, had they any survival instincts at all. A few feet in front of me, Officer Khan and his counter part were already slinking out the leftmost set of double doors and I couldn't help but wonder about Khan's little notebook and the scribbles it held.
A hand wrapped around my arm.
"Tonight then? Meet me here at seven. Then after the performance you'll take me to Christine?"
I looked at him quizzically. Raoul said her name so casually, as if the years had made the syllables of her name comfortable on his tongue.
"You already know her?"
"Perhaps… but she wouldn't remember…" he seemed flustered.
"Alright, seven it is," I agreed. My first night in New Orleans would be spent with two insufferable managers and a Vicomte at a jazz club. Surely it would be a night to remember.
